


The Adventure Of “The Veiled Lodger” (1896)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [159]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Cock Rings, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Theatre, Threats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 06:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11480349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A dreadful case, not so much for itself but for what ensued from it. Sherlock investigates a play that seems bedevilled by bad luck, and finds the source of that misfortune is rather too close to home.





	The Adventure Of “The Veiled Lodger” (1896)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyster99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyster99/gifts).



My readers will remember that, some little time back, Sherlock's father Sir Charles Holmes had warned (and 'armed') us against the threat of a move against us both by a sibling, either Mycroft or Ranulph (my friend later confirmed, as I had suspected, the hand of Lady Holmes in this). Our next case, the third that we undertook in that fateful year, was when one of Sherlock's siblings did indeed impinge on our lives, and that – with its terrible aftermath – was why Sherlock was to take no cases in the latter half of that year.

+~+~+

It was April Fool's Day. I was sat at my writing-desk (more than a little painfully; Sherlock had had one of his rare fits of morning energy, and I really needed the cushion that my poor, abused and happy backside was currently resting on. I was busy writing a note to my little brother and his wife; their eldest son Johnson had recently had a very unpleasant form of chickenpox, and they were having her family over to celebrate his recovery. I had been invited up, but a recent outbreak of winter flu had kept me unusually busy at the surgery as of late, so I had reluctantly declined.

“Your nephew is well?”

I jumped. I had not noticed Sherlock putting his paper down, his blue eyes boring into mine from across the room.

“Yes”, I said. “I thought that I would send him some money to mark his recovery, so that he can choose a toy to buy. Fortunately the bank in the street has an arrangement with their local bank that enables me to do that.”

Sherlock looked as if he was about to comment on that, but then simply nodded and went back to his paper.

“What is it?” I asked. I could see that something was on his mind.

He turned back to me, and it was one of the few times that I had ever caught him looking uncertain.

“Would it be too forward if I gave the boy a gift as well?” he asked tentatively. “It is just......”

He seemed to grind to a halt. I smiled warmly at him.

“No child can ever have enough uncles”, I said. “Of course.”

“Uncle Sherlock”, he muttered, and I could see how affected he was despite his stoicism. “I.... like that.”

Damn dusty room, making my eyes water. The maids really needed to do a better job in here.

+~+~+

We had just finished finalizing the monetary arrangements when there was a knock at the door. It was Miss Harvelle, in charge of the house now that her mother and stepfather had decided to spend the best part of six months touring the United States and visiting the latter's home town. There was a lady with her, whom she announced as 'Miss Millicent Lowery' before withdrawing. 

Our visitor was young, but had a sense of purpose about her. Sherlock guided her over to the fireside chair, and waited for her to be seated.

“Thank you for seeing me, gentlemen”, she began. “I should begin by telling you that I am friend of Miss Harvelle, and work in the library that adjoins her school. What concerns me is a small matter that is probably nothing, but she tells me that some of your most important cases have begun from such seemingly trivial matters.”

I forbore from commenting that that was true only a small fraction of the time, and that the vast bulk of cases when something small devolved into nothing did not, for obvious reasons, get inflicted on my readers. Sherlock gave me his annoying mind-reading look, and I blushed. Manfully.

“That is indeed true”, my friend said, giving me another look that was quite unfair of him. “Pray, what is troubling you?”

She took a deep breath.

“It all seems so silly!” she said.

“Let the doctor and I be the judges of that”, Sherlock gently pressed. “Go on.”

“Miss Harvelle and I are friends through the theatrical society that we both partake in”, she said. “We decided that our next production was to be “The Veiled Lodger”. Are either of you aware of the novel?”

“I am”, I admitted, blushing slightly when Sherlock looked across at me. “It was the first book by a Mr. Charles Wimborne, who writes in a similar style to that of poor Mr. Oscar Wilde. It is a horror story with a twist, about a man who becomes curious about a fellow lodger of his, a lady who always wears a veil. He tries to find out more, only to wish that he had not.”

“What happens?” Sherlock asked. I blushed even more.

“The man falls in love with the mysterious lodger, only to find that 'she' is, or was, a man, who once disguised himself in order to hide out from his criminal colleagues”, I said. “They killed him in this room, and his ghost is bound to it until someone discovers his body, which is buried nearby. The main character is shown where the body lies, and the killers are as a result caught and executed. The body is buried with all the proper rites, so that the ghost can finally be laid to rest.”

It sounded even worse when I said it. My normal literature tastes were much better than this tat. Well, mostly better.

“And the twist?” Sherlock asked, doing that annoying not-smirk of his.

“The final scene is some months later, when the main character meets a fellow actor in a theatrical group”, I said. “The second man is wearing a veil, just like the dead one, and looks exactly like him. The play within a play, like Shakespeare.”

“Indeed”, our visitor said. “The theme is quite controversial, especially with Mr. Wilde still in jail. Two of our members said that they felt uncomfortable with it, which is of course perfectly fine. However, since we began preparations for the performance, strange things have been happening.”

“What sort of strange things?” Sherlock asked.

“Only very minor ones so far”, she said, “which is why I was reluctant to make an issue of them. Small things going missing, scripts that were safely locked away disappearing, that sort of thing. A book that I left in a drawer for one scene which was not there when I went to retrieve it.”

“Do you suspect either of the two people who withdrew from the play?” Sherlock asked. She smiled as she shook her head.

“Maybelle Adams hasn't a thought in her pretty little head”, she said wryly, “and Simeon Watkins is her male equivalent! The members who agreed to put on the play are all keen to do it, but something about these happenings worries me.”

“Possibly with reason”, Sherlock said. “There seems little to go on at this moment in time, but I trust that you will inform the doctor and myself immediately that there are any further developments?”

“I will, sir.”

+~+~+

“It could just be forgetfulness or chance”, I mused after our visitor had left. Sherlock shook his head.

“Miss Lowery is sharp”, he said. “She senses danger here, and I rather fear that she is correct.”

+~+~+

It was a week later. Sherlock had presumably made some inquiries into Miss Lowery's case, but nothing had come of them as yet. He and I had just returned from the Empire Theatre in Leicester Square, where we had seen a film entertainment by the Lumière brothers, a set of about a dozen short presentations, none more than a minute long. I must admit (because some blue-eyed personage in the vicinity would not let me publish this story unless I did!) that I, like many in the theatre, had jumped violently at the sight of a railway locomotive rushing straight towards us. And there was no need for him to look so smug! I was sure that these 'moving pictures' would _never_ catch on!

Miss Lowery was waiting for us in our rooms when we returned. She immediately presented Sherlock with a note.

“An anonymous letter”, she said gravely. “It came this morning. It threatens to burn down the theatre with us all inside it, if we continue with the play.”

Sherlock read the note and pursed his lips.

“Have you taken this to the police?” he asked. She shook her head.

“You have read it”, she said. “'The law cannot save you'. This is some religious zealot that we are dealing with.”

We all sat down, and Sherlock leant across to Miss Lowery.

“Is there a date for the first performance?” he asked.

“That is another thing”, she said, sounding angry now. “The local theatre had promised us that we could start next month, but now the manager there says that they had a prior booking, and we cannot be fitted in until June. I believe that someone may have pressured him.”

“I can probably find out if they have”, Sherlock said. “May I ask how the cast members responded to this threat?”

Miss Lowery smiled.

“It had hardened our resolve, sirs”, she said firmly. “We will not be bullied out of exercising the right to free speech, just like Mr. Voltaire said.” (1)

“And I shall work to defend your right so to do”, Sherlock said. “May I keep this note? I can do certain tests on it that may reveal some things.”

“Of course”, she smiled.

+~+~+

Two things should be said at this stage about my crime-solving abilities. Firstly, I had next to none. But secondly, all my time with Sherlock had made me fluent in 'Sherlock-ese', and I somehow knew that there had been something in that note that had unsettled him. Worse, it had unsettled him sufficiently not to share it with me. It hurt a little, but I supposed that he must have had his reasons.

I did try looking at the note whilst he was out, but apart from the obvious fact that it was written on quality paper – there was even an ornate watermark in all four corners! - and that the writer did something unnecessarily fancy with his (or her) letter 'g's, I could see nothing. Perhaps my writer's imagination was running away with me again.

I would probably have remained in the dark had it not been for a fortuitous circumstance two days later, which showed me at least part of what my friend had discovered. I had by this time quit regular work at the surgery, although I remained 'on call' to some of their most prestigious clients whom I had always tended, in gratitude for the place's help in my early years. I also remained good friends with Doctor (now Sir) Peter Greenwood, and it was his younger sister Patricia, one of the few female doctors at the time, who called me in in this instance, because one of her patients was being 'difficult' about being treated by a lady. I quickly conferred with her, then went to see this 'Mrs. Leonard'. 

It was whilst I was waiting to be shown up to the lady's rooms that I noticed the family portraits on the wall. Normally these would not have interested me in the slightest (some horrible person I knew had once suggested that we view those at one house and play 'Guess Who Looks The Most Constipated', only seconds before we had been ushered in, damn him!), except that one whole family picture included.... Sherlock? I squinted – I would have to bow to the inevitable and get spectacles soon – but it was definitely him, and I now recognized both Bacchus and Gaylord from the picture as well. It was a Holmes family portrait.

All was made clear when I met Mrs. Leonard, who turned out to be the daughter of Sherlock's unpleasant elder brother Mycroft, she having recently married. She was pregnant with her first child, and apparently there were all sorts of difficulties that she had not foreseen, including food cravings, sickness and putting on weight (in a pregnancy? Amazing!). I bit my tongue and did my best to calm her down, but I did promise to examine her whilst I was there, if only to reassure her.

It was whilst she was undressing behind the screen that I was standing by her writing desk, idly staring at the blank pad before something suddenly registered with me. I looked closer, and realized not only was the blank paper the same distinctive yellow-orange as Miss Lowery's anonymous letter, but the insignia in all four corners was the same. Indeed, I now recognized it for what it was – a heavily stylized letter 'H'. And that was not the only thing that caught my attention. There was a short handwritten note from 'Uncle Ranulph' on the desk – and the single letter 'g' in it was in the same fanciful scrawl as in the anonymous letter!

I do not know whether it was fortuitous or not that Mrs. Leonard sailed round from behind the screen at that moment. Somehow I tore my eyes away from the desk, and began her examination.

+~+~+

I mentioned my new patient to Sherlock that evening, and that she was, I supposed, his niece. I like to pride myself that few would have spotted the faintest of flickers in his eyes when I mentioned his brothers. Was one or both of them behind the attempts to stop the play being shown?

The following week there was a further delay to Miss Lowery's schedule, when it 'emerged' that the other play which had been booked to start the month before at the theatre Miss Lowery's group used had been booked for longer than had first been said. Our client was particularly annoyed as she had just had the advertising posters printed with the already changed dates, and now they would have to be partly covered over. It seemed a small thing at the time, but as events transpired it would prove to be otherwise. 

+~+~+

A few days later, matters took an even more serious turn.

“Sherlock!”

My friend looked up from his coffee, still bleary-eyed. Unfortunately the shop had failed to deliver his usual coffee, and although I had of course gone out to fetch some from elsewhere - I valued my life! - he was still not back to his usual self. I read aloud from the article.

“'There was a major fire at the Garrick Lane Theatre last night, which has severely damaged the building during a performance of “Love's Labours Lost” by Mr. William Shakespeare'”, I read. “'Several audience members and two of the cast suffered injuries that were mostly smoke-related when a fire broke out in one of the back-rooms, and then spread to the rest of the building. Fortunately firemen from two nearby stations were able to save the theatre, and it is hoped that it will soon be putting on plays again.'”

He looked thoughtful.

“The posters for “The Veiled Lodger” had just been posted, had they not?” he said.

I nodded. “And Miss Lowery had not yet received the extra sheets with the new dates on, so anyone coming to the theatre might have thought that that was the play that was going on inside.”

“Particularly if they attacked through the back, and did not see any of the actors”, Sherlock said. “This is becoming deadly serious, John. It is time that we took measures.”

I little knew then what tragedy was about to result from this case. A real tragedy, not one of the theatrical variety.

+~+~+

The theatre itself came through the fire surprisingly unscathed and with no structural damage, which meant that it could reopen in June. Even better, the manager, a Mr. Heston Thacker, was found not only to have accepted money to delay the production of “The Veiled Lodger”, but to have dispatched a key to a post box in return for a large cash payment. Having been given no direct contact with his beneficiary, he had been unable to alert them to the over-running of the Shakespeare play, hence the fire. Unfortunately, that also meant that it was impossible to trace who the money or the directions came from, but I did notice that Sherlock was now tackling this case with a renewed vigour, in spite of other calls on his time. I increasingly feared the worst.

+~+~+

“The Veiled Lodger” was scheduled to belatedly open on Midsummer's Day of that year. Two days before, Mr. and Mrs. Singer arrived back from the trip to the United States, with an unexpected guest. I have seen many variants on humanity in my time in 221B, but few were more 'variant' that Mr. Ashland Lindberg, a sharp-eyed man in his late twenties, and with the most bizarre, slicked-forward blond hair. I helped to carry the returning couple's bags in, and was in time to see Miss Harvelle take one look at the newcomer and burst into fits of laughter, much to her mother's annoyance. Mr. Lindberg, thankfully, did not appear to mind, and he became the new resident for Room Two. He had even brought with him one of those phonograph things that played music; fortunately it was fairly quiet. Technology!

I had a growing feeling that a further assault on the theatre company would be made on the opening night, a feeling that only grew until we reached the morning of the twenty-fourth. Sherlock had, of course, taken preventative measures.

“I am expecting a visitor”, he announced that morning. “I would like you to stay, if you would, but not to take notes, or at least not until after they are gone.”

“Of course”, I said, wondering at the unusual request.

The morning, predictably, dragged, and it was almost eleven before we heard a heavy tread on the stairs. The door opened to reveal a tall, heavily-set man with raven-black hair and a grim expression. He looked vaguely familiar from somewhere, though I was sure that we had (fortunately) never met. For some reason he threw a particularly nasty scowl in my direction before moving slowly to the fireside. 

“I will not sit”, he said darkly. “I do not wish to be here. What do you want, Sherlock?”

My friend did not seen surprised by our guest's rudeness.

“Greetings, brother”, he said.

“You are no brother of mine!” the visitor snapped. “Living this sort of lifestyle with...... _him!_ ”

He gestured towards me. I was lost.

“Ranulph”, Sherlock said slowly, “unless you can conduct yourself in a civilized manner whilst in the presence of my friend, you will have to leave. But believe me when I say that you will not like what happens if you so do.”

His words were underlain with menace. I shuddered. Our visitor scowled at him.

“Get on with it!” he said curtly.

“You will tell your agents to cease their efforts to prevent “The Veiled Lodger” from taking place”, Sherlock said firmly. His brother glared at him.

“Why should I?” he demanded.

“Continental and General”, Sherlock said, as if that explained everything. It did not, but it clearly meant something if the pallor that flushed our visitor's face was anything to go by.

“You only want to defend that bastard play because you are living that same filthy way with your 'wifey' here!” he sneered. “Do not think that we are unaware of this vice-ridden lifestyle of yours. If Mother and Father were not so damn broad-minded, they would have thrown you out years ago!”

“I do not think that Father is broad-minded enough to forgive what you did”, Sherlock said. He pulled himself to his feet. “That is the deal. If one more thing happens to those actors or their theatre, then I will let Father know exactly what you did as regards that bank.”

“Rot in Hell!”

Mr. Ranulph Holmes was physically larger than his brother, but as they squared up by the fireplace, it was the younger sibling who seemed to stand tall. I tensed, ready to leap across and defend my friend, but our unwelcome visitor gave a guttural snarl before turning on his heel and storming out, slamming the door behind him. He was fortunate that Mrs. Singer was out for the day, otherwise there might well have been the sound of rifle-fire soon afterwards.

I stared in astonishment, until Sherlock sighed and all but fell back into his own chair. I hurried over to kneel beside him, and he smiled at me.

“You suspected, did you not?” he asked. I nodded.

“His niece's house”, I said. “There was a note from him in the same writing as Miss Lowery's threatening letter. Why did he write the notes himself, I wonder?”

“Ranulph has always been a bully”, Sherlock said with a heavy sigh. I placed my hand over his, and smiled.

“What was that about Continental and General?” I asked.

“Some years back, Father decided to buy into that bank”, Sherlock explained. “Somehow Ranulph got wind of his plans and bought in first, then sold all his shares just as Father's interest had forced the share price up. Father lost heavily, but Ranulph had covered his tracks well. Or so he thought.”

“Then how did you find out?” I asked. 

He hesitated.

“Those files Father brought me – us – last year”, he said. “He and Mother knew that either Mycroft or Ranulph might move against me or Luke, so they gave us both some 'ammunition'. Of course he knows about Ranulph's financial mis-dealings and Mycroft's.... well, sexual misadventures, but they both think that he is in the dark. Which means neither will be able to do anything, even after Father passes. They would be too afraid that we might use the information in a legal defence, or worse, go to the papers with it. It would be social ruin for one or both of them.”

I nodded, but noticed how strained he looked from the encounter with his bigoted brother. I had an idea.

“We are going to see the play tonight, are we not?” I said.

“Yes”, he said. “Miss Lowery has secured us a box. Why?”

I smiled.

“I expect you feel somewhat soiled after that encounter”, I said. “What you need is a nice hot bath. Something to enable you to relax.”

The look he gave me was positively feral.

“If you are thinking what I think you are thinking”, he growled, “I do not think such a thing would be at all relaxing!”

“Well”, I sighed expressively, “If you would rather not....”

“You, naked, bathroom!” he almost snarled. I grinned and almost ran into our bathroom, and began to run the bath, making sure to add plenty of his bubble-bath under the tap.

+~+~+

Sherlock and what was left of me just made it to the theatre on time, and Miss Lowery was delighted to see us. The play was not overly long, so there would be no intermission, and we were shown straight up to our box, which was the second one back from the stage. It was almost pitch-dark except for the weak light thrown from the single gas-lamp, which Sherlock turned off as soon as I was seated.

The play itself was good, and I wished I could have empathized more with Dewey, the lead character. However, I was more than a little distracted, both by the cock-ring that Sherlock had put on me, and the vibrator that was gently teasing my prostate throughout the performance. That and a smooth hand from a certain blue-eyed genius which had slipped slowly but surely past my waistband and had spent much of the play rubbing my cock, sometimes gently and sometimes faster. It was an exquisite torture, helped by the fact that I was enjoying both it and the look of contentment on my lover's face. But not helped by the prospect of a bumpy cab-ride back to Baker Street, since I knew that Sherlock would not allow me to come until we were home.

“John”, he whispered quietly. 

“Yes?” I croaked, my eyes watering as his clever fingers teased my balls.

“I love you.”

Some inner instinct made me grit my teeth, and it was just as well for at that moment, my theories about being able to break a cock-ring were proven all too right. I came all over Sherlock's hand, the he looked only momentarily surprised before smiling with pleasure.

“Not bad for a forty-four-year-old”, he praised. “I shall have to make sure the next one I buy is reinforced.”

I was too busy trying to get my breathing back to say anything, so I had no defence when I suddenly felt cold steel back around the base of my cock.

“You.... brought a spare?” I hissed, my voice sounding far too loud in the dark.

“I never underestimate my man!” he grinned. “Just as well. Now, let us see if we can get you back to where we were.....”

Yes, he was definitely going to kill me one of these days. But I would just have to come back as a ghost. I wondered if ghosts could have sex....

+~+~+

Unfortunately, we had not seen the last of Mr. Ranulph Holmes.....

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Actually Voltaire never said those exact words, they having come from a friend's summing up his general attitude.


End file.
